


hands of gold are always cold

by cherrytart



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Broken Bones, Emotional Baggage, Everybody Lives, M/M, Mindfuck, Pain, Politics, Poor Bilbo, Post BoFA, War Aftermath, bagginshield, bilbo would rather not partake, both personal and otherwise, but things are still messed up, culture clash, dwarves have some pretty weird customs, kink meme fill, why do i do this to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fighting is over, and there are dues to be paid before the mending can begin. Some traditions not even a King would dare to go against. </p><p>Bilbo, though, would much rather not be forgiven.</p><p>-on hiatus-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another vague kink meme fill- link to the prompt posted at the bottom of the work, but the prompt is pretty spoilery, so pursue at your own risk. 
> 
> The title is from A Song of Ice and Fire and is a result of my terminal lack of originality. Plus it does sort of fit :)

_There far are too many people in the tent. The air is thick with animosity, and the healers have thrown up their hands, unable to pronounce upon his fate. They can do no more for the dwarf who lies in the centre of the chaos, facing down his kinsman, his saviour, with a face like a thundercloud. He is strong still, but only the maker could say if he will live or die._

_Only his pale complexion and the hand he presses to his bandaged wounds give any sign of their severity. Thorin knows himself in danger, but he must not show this to the dwarrows around him. Not all are his friends. He knows why they are here- they had meant to watch him die, but finding him clinging with characteristic obstinance to life, will not fail to swoop like vultures upon the slightest show of hesitance._

_“The council will hear no more excuses, cousin. They are demanding the thief be punished for his crimes.”_

_As the King under the Mountain struggles to push himself up from his sickbed, not even the clamour of a post battle campsite, full of cries and bustle, the pain of the wounded and the intermitent roars of grief for the fallen, can disguise his groan of pain._

_He may yet succumb to his wounds, but his eyes are fierce with resistance. “I cannot…I will not have him harmed. Have I not done enough to him?”_

_The Lord of the Iron Hills shakes his head. “You know the law, Thorin. Such treachery cannot go without a penalty. They demand **jazar-** **ubūrush**.” _

_The tent is deadly silent. “Surely that is too harsh.” Balin son of Fundin hazards. He has lost half of his magnificent beard and blood lines his face from forehead to jaw, and still he moves fiercely to defend their burglar._

_**Thorin's** burglar. _

_Balin knows that. Of course he knows, he knew practically before Thorin did._

_Dain Ironfoot is not a cruel dwarrow, and his face is grave as he shakes his head in response to Balin's protest. “The council has considered. **Ubkun** must be offered for such a betrayal.” _

_Thorin sees the lines forming on either side of his cot- members of his company fingering their weapons in revolt, Dain’s advisers lacing their fingers together, assured and circumspect. He holds up a hand, the one that is not pressed against the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his stomach._

_“Thorin?” Dain prompts, looking as though he would much rather be somewhere else._

_“There is no other way?” The still-uncrowned King’s voice seems close to cracking, whether from the pain of his wounds or from the knowledge of what he must do. What he must allow others to do, because of his own deplorable weakness._

_The Lord of the Iron Hills comes closer, bending his face towards his cousin. “Consider it a mercy. They could have asked for his head.”_

_Thorin laughs, low and bitter with a hacking cough at the end. The healers come forward again, pressing cloths to his forehead and pulling blankets to cover his bloodied torso. With an irritated snap of his hand, he waves them all away._

_He cares not for his own suffering, as absurdly negligent as that may seem. It is the least he deserves. He remembers the fear in his love’s eyes when Thorin laid hands upon him, the trembling skin beneath his fingers. He remembers what he has done, the depths he fell to because of his own weakness, and steels himself to bear it._

_What right has he to self-pity? That is the one thing he has never allowed himself, not after the Dragon, not after Azanulbizar, not any time for any tragedy, and definitely not now._

_“Do we have your order, Thorin?” Dain asks._

_“No.” Thorin grits out, taking momentary pleasure in the squawks of indignation given by the dwarrows of the Council. “Only…only if…not_ that _. Only the **imidūkh**. Break them if you must, but that is all.” _

_The dwarrows of Dain’s court begin to mutter with disapproval. Dain himself looks pained. “Thorin, the Halfling stole the-”_

_“I know what he did!” Thorin thunders, as much as he can with blood seeping from his wounds and no knowledge of whether his youngest nephew will ever wake up again. Fili will not leave his brother’s bedside. Thorin is briefly glad of it, for it means his nephews will not have to witness this. “Believe me, I know. I almost killed him for it.”_

_The arkenstone. He valued it- values it?- above a river of gold, it is true. Where is it now, and why can he hardly bring himself to care? His thoughts are heavy, as though he has woken up from a stonesleep, like Durin and the fathers of old. He detests it. It feels like weakness._

_“Then surely, my lord, you understand that the punishment must fit the crime.” One of Dain’s councilmen pipes up. “A thieving hand will meet the axe.” There is a flurry of approval from among the dwarrows of the Iron Hills, silence from the Company._

_They all know the words to be true, no matter how much they wish for a reprieve. The law is ancient, unchanging. The dwarves endure, their customs do the same. This is the way they have survived, by standing strong. King and thief alike must bear the burden of tradition._

_Thorin could turn his cousin away. He could decline to punish his halfling, keep Bilbo Baggins safe and protected with him, begin to make up in some small way for all the evil he has done to so valiant a creature._

_To the very mithril of his heart._

_But whilst he may have back his mountain, his thrice-damned arkenstone, Thorin knows exactly how precarious his position is. The truce with the elves and men may not hold. He owes Dain much, and more than that he is going to need his cousin’s help if Erebor hopes to rebuild, repopulate. And the dwarrows of the Iron Hills are notorious for their pride._

_Should Thorin refuse to enact **ubkun**_ _upon Bilbo, however defenceless his burglar may be, who is to say that they will not take matters into their own hands?_

_Hands._

_The halfling’s hands are so small, so thin after months of travel but still soft, delicate lines marking the palms that Thorin has traced with his own blunt fingers, adoration in the slightest touch. In those hands he has placed the lives of his company, many times over. In those hands the Arkenstone was carried away. The jewel of jewels, pride of Durin’s line, and if it were anyone else who had done the act, the penalty would not even need to be discussed._

_But Thorin cannot let them do what they intend._

_To show that he holds true to the ancient laws, that he is still a king in spite of his exile, his shame and the ragged people he leads. He must give them an example, even if it forced upon him. What are the laws if the King can exempt those he loves from them?_

_Thorin knows not, for in truth he feels not a King at all. They could seat him upon the great throne of Erebor, place his grandfather's ring and crown upon his body, bow before him in their thousands and he would feel a fraud._

_If he is honest himself, the quest, the mere_ hope _of Erebor has consumed him for so long that now, when it is all laid before him for the taking, he does not quite believe it. Is he, Thorin Oakenshield, who watched his grandfather and brother die in the mud of Azanulbizar, who could not keep his own father from madness and ruin, who dragged his beloved nephews away from their home to pursue a mad dream that now proves frighteningly real- is he truly a King?_

_He wonders what a true king would do._

_The silence has stretched on too long, and he sees he must give way at least a little. For Bilbo’s protection, if nothing else._

_“I will not allow you to mutilate my…the halfing.” Thorin says, hating the tremor in his voice caused by the pain of his wounds, for it works to make him sound as frail as he feels. Oin comes to his bedside, tips a draught down his throat before he can protest._

_Something sweet._

_Sweet like a halfling's kisses, like the first time Bilbo had smiled for him, really smiled, and stretched forward to press their mouths together. The hobbit is small and Thorin had lifted him from his feet in the very act of taking the beguiling creature into his arms, pressing the burglar to him in possessive satisfaction, touches burning as brands on delicate skin. **His** , made for him and only him, his heart's delight and desire. _

_It is right then, perhaps, that he must pronounce the sentence._

_“But…he will be punished.” Thorin hates himself before his mouth even conjures the words, for he sees Bilbo’s face in his minds eyes- disgruntled laughing awed astonished fearful angry blissful_ afraid- _and his heart thinks to tear itself in two. He says it again: “His fingers, if you must.” He repeats the words once more in full Khuzdul, over the gasps of his Company. A King’s decree. His first._

_Mahal help him._

_The Council of Iron Hills tip their grey, fusty heads together and mutter amongst themselves. After a few minutes, they seem to remember they answer to their King and let Dain into their circle. Thorin allows himself a moment to dread the courtly politics of an Erebor renewed. A small price to pay, though. He thinks of his boys recognised as princes at last, of his Halfling safe and draped with small bright jewels, of his people returning to home, to safety._

_It is worth it. Somehow. Or it will be._

_"My king, you cannot allow this. There must be some other way." Balin seems inches from wringing his hands in supplication, and the look of grief in his eyes is startling. It should not be so, really- all the company care for Bilbo in spite of his thievery. That much is writ plain on their faces._

_"I am not allowing it, Balin. I am ordering it." Thorin says gravely. "Do not look so afeared. I will make my recompense afterward."_

_Afterward. There will be a way, he tells himself. But first, he must permit this. And he will be lucky, truly lucky, if Bilbo ever cleaves to him again in the aftermath. Thorin closes his eyes briefly- he will not lose the halfling, he_ cannot _. He will find a way to earn Bilbo's forgiveness, and to forgive in turn._

_The discussion winds its way to a close, and Dain steps forward again. “We find your penalty acceptable, Thorin King under the Mountain.” The last words in their sudden truth will shock him till his dying day, Thorin thinks. “Produce the thief, and we are content to bear witness.”_

_Thorin closes his eyes, guilt warring with relief. “Dwalin.” He murmurs a moment later._

_“Yes, my king?” Dwalin steps forward, bringing forth Grasper and kneeling on the muddy floor of the tent. They had fought upon this ground, and it is soaked with blood that Thorin can no longer distinguish from the dried flakes that crust his own  body, and that of his kin. They have won ruins, and it shows. Shows in Balin's exhausted eyes, in the splint on Gloin's leg, in the agony on Fili's face when they brought in his brother's body, pale and all but lifeless._

_Dwalin’s own face has escaped further injury, but Thorin can tell from the way he holds himself that his ribs are all but broken. He ought to be abed, but Thorin would like to see the dwarrow who could enforce that. Not even Oin would dare to try, he thinks._

_“I would ask you…if you were willing- this is wretched task, one that I would entrust to none but you.”_

_“It would be my honour.” Dwalin’s face does not betray a quiver of emotion, but he has not the skill to hide the lie in his voice. He will do it, as he has done all that Thorin has asked of him for all their lives, but he will take no pleasure in the doing._

_No honour either._

_They none of them have any of that left._

_“Thorin- my king.” Oin says in an unusually gentle tone. “The lad is such a small wee thing- must it be done this way?”_

_“I think it must, Oin.” Balin sounds immeasurably tired. “For his own good, if nothing else.”_

_“Doubt he’ll thank us for it.” Nori opines from the tent doorway. His brothers peer in from either side of his shoulders, all three of them shell shocked and dirty from the battle, but unharmed. The Ri are snakes that way- injuries seem go out of their way to avoid them. A luck that thieves have may extend to those they love, Thorin thinks dryly. Some of the time._

_“He’ll understand.” Balin says heavily. “He always does.”_

_“Where is the creature?” One of Dain’s men asks, then winds his fingers through his beard when he is fixed with a glare from every member of the company currently in the room._

_“His name is Bilbo.” Thorin is surprised to find the words coming from his own mouth. He makes brief eye contact with Balin, then looks away. Shall he ever escape this weight of shame? He doubts that he deserves that much._

_“I saw him talking with Bofur, over by the soldier's tents.” Ori murmurs. “They can’t really break his-” he starts before being shushed by both his brothers._

_Thorin fights down the brief flare of jealousy- Bofur is Bilbo’s friend, only his friend, but for all that has passed Thorin still cannot stop the impulse that demands Bilbo be his alone, it is bred into his blood as deeply as his lust for gold._

_Both have led him here. He must hurt his Halfling, his love. Break him in order to save him. Mahal have mercy, he has not even laid eyes on the hobbit's face since he threatened to throw him down from the gate.Thorin wonders- does Bilbo not come to him because he fears that Thorin will die, or because he fears that the King Under the Mountain will live?_

_He looks up at the remnants of his company. He is still their leader, and the responsibility is his. “Someone bring him here. I must see this done.”_

_“There’s no need of that, laddie.” Balin shakes his head, all kingly titles forgotten as he looks down at Thorin._

_“I think there is, old friend. I would see what I have wrought so that it might never come to pass again. It is my duty, and my right.” Thorin says, feeling the weight of the truth on his tongue. It mingles with the pain, in his head and his body. And somewhere else, somewhere that may never heal._

_“You’re not out of the woods yet, your majesty, if you’ll pardon my honesty.” Oin says. “We will stand witness in your stead.”_

_“Aye.” Dwalin concurs, sheathing his axe and making for the doorway. “Rest, Thorin. We’ll see it done right.”_

_“There is no right way to do this.” Somebody says, but Thorin’s head has already begun to swim, his vision grown cloudy. The aches remain. What was in that drink Oin gave to him?_

_He tries to fight the growing drowsiness falling upon him. Someone presses their hand to his- Balin? “Rest.” No, Dain._

_“No- I must…Bilbo.” It is the last word he manages, and as the gathered dwarrows leave the tent, he sinks into unconsciousness, collapsing into memories of bright, scared eyes, and a fragile throat in an iron tight grip._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I hopefully make up for not having updated this story in weeks with a four-thousand word splurge of angst, semi- flashback and Bardlings.  
> As always, any typos or mistakes are on me.

They are piling up the bodies of the wolves. He thinks they mean to skin them for their pelts. A winter in an abandoned mountain will be cold, after all.

The last time Bilbo Baggins felt true cold, he was barely more than a child. The wolves came that winter too, came for his green and pleasant country and left their bloody footprints in the snow.

He fancies he can taste snow on the air, through the mud and the battle leavings.

Never venture east, his father and Baggins uncles always told him. Perhaps it will always be like that here. He supposes that is not for him to know.

Him. _Burglar. Hostage. Traitor. Thief._

“You know you’re not safe, Bilbo.” Bofur tells him darkly, when Bilbo finally catches up with him in the main healers tent, anxious for news of the Company.

He knows.

He can feel a thousand hostile eyes following him as he moves listlessly through the butchers shop they are calling a campsite, and his fingers itch for the somewhat-comfort of his ring. He wonders what they mean to do with him, and why he cannot move himself to fear.

A crushing, tired kind of deadness is all he encounters within his mind, like swimming through the weeds at the bank of the Brandywine, and being tugged further down with each stroke. He gives a little sniff, looking up past the endless lines of makeshift tents, at the stark edge of the lonely mountain cutting its way upward.

He does not want to see the gate, the gate from where he was almost tossed, where he clung and kicked and would’ve begged for his life but for the fact that he couldn't breathe, the gate that had been flung open to let loose twelve foolhardy idiots with their king at their head, loose on a battle that might still prove the death of two of them-

Bilbo digs his thumbnail into the flesh of his palm. He cannot help but think of them, as much as he wishes for coldness, for some measure of hate to match that which Thorin Oakenshield probably feels for him.

Oh, confound it for a melodrama! Surely, Thorin has greater concerns than one treacherous little hobbit, however many times he might have tipped Bilbo forwards and buggered him to his heart’s content. In fact, Bilbo is sure that the dwarf simply wished to draw a line beneath the whole sorry business, amorous encounters included.

Thorin has never spoken of love, after all.

Dwarves approach things differently to hobbits. They are fiercer, hardier, plainer, and altogether more physical. It is quite foolish to chalk up _I want you, come here, let me have you, yes, like that,_ a hand on his shoulder and another pulling his legs apart, rough and quick and needy- and here Bilbo must close his weary eyes and fight down a most unhobbitish heat- it does not mean what he hoped it might.

And yes, he has thought. Many times, about what might be.

Does he love Thorin, then? He was sure he did, could not gainsay the fluttering in his chest when the mountain king’s gaze fell upon him, could not help but feel crazed and cracked open with it even before Thorin eased his way inside, leaving Bilbo blind to anything but him, mewling helplessly and squirming in his grip but wanting closer, _closer_ and **more**. 

Utterly alien from any notions of love he had learned in the Shire.

Love was not rough, or harsh, or scalding hot. It was supposed to be a gentle thing, a source of comfort and safety, a way to build families and stay secure.

Bilbo is the opposite of safe, the opposite of secure. And the fact that Thorin made him feel that way, even though the dwarf was not himself, was sick from the sight of the gold and had every right to be furious with him- it _hurts_. Bilbo is aware that pretending Thorin didn’t threaten to kill him is useless.

But it doesn’t change the fact that Thorin had in earlier days hung from a cliff to reach him, _saved_ him.

That he has saved Thorin.

So how can Bilbo help but love him?

For all the good that it does. Which is none, really, except to make his chest ache rather singularly. It is not to be. Thorin will die, or he will be crowned.

Dead. He has so strong a variety of feelings for Thorin, all of them muddled and clumsy and more than his small life and small self could ever hope to achieve fully, but to think of him _dead…_

Dead or dying. Weakness is an anathema to the King under the Mountain, Bilbo knows. Thorin’s hard-crafted belief in himself, in his own history in spite of his line’s failings, it had seemed so pure, his stone fast dwarven determination so forceful and true that Bilbo failed to notice how it had blinded not only Thorin but the rest of them to the possibility of this- of anything like this.

Now, it seems very real. Bilbo still cannot quite believe it. Perhaps that is why he stays away, not from fear for himself but for fear that seeing Thorin, so strong and vital, ferocious and beloved, seeing him on what might be his deathbed will feel like a death in itself.

But should his belief in Thorin not have died the second the dwarf closed his hand around Bilbo’s neck, and the hobbit glimpsed what might have been hatred in his lover’s eyes, mingled though it was with hurt and disbelief? Or before that, when he undertaken the ultimate theft of his short but promising career and spirited away the Arkenstone from under Thorin’s nose?

No. He had still had hope even then. He had thought he saw a way to peace, a way to banish the shadows from Thorin’s eyes and the ghosts of them from the faces of the Company, and he had taken it.

He had taken the heart of the mountain, and now its soul, its King, lies in the throes of his injuries, no way of anyone knowing whether or not he will survive the night.

Erebor, Bilbo supposes, will rebuild either way. He feelings on the matter do not come into it, though his heart is seizing over and over at the very thought of Thorin, dead or alive. Fili lives, and by the grace of the Valar so will his brother. The company are well enough, it seems. 

He does not think they will want to see him. No, Bilbo will go home, and count himself lucky. But he can’t go without knowing, so here he is. Moping.

He really ought to make himself useful. He starts up from the camping stool that Bofur found for him and where he’s been drooping forlornly for the past half hour. To be useless and alone will only make him more dreary. The dwarves of the Iron Hills may look at him with suspicion and barely concealed hostility, but there are men and elves milling around the camp, so no doubt he will find some form of employment.

What he finds is Sigrid- well, Princess Sigrid now, he supposes, since the Lakemen have named Bard their King. He has kept his distance from Bard’s children since his unceremonious exit from Erebor. How could he possibly have done otherwise? Smaug has destroyed the only home they’d known in their short lives, burned their town, killed their neighbours, and more than partly down to his recklessness.

Is a crown enough to pay for all that? True, he has forfeited his share of the treasure to help Bard rebuild Dale, and in return for that pesky Arkenstone being restored to its rightful owner. Does that make up for things? He grows tired of measuring life and loss in gold and gems. 

Whatever the case, Sigrid is looking distinctly un-princess-like at this moment, shovelling discarded heaps of bloody bandages with as grim a face as her father, but she looks up as he passes and almost seems to smile.

“Hello, Mr Baggins.” She straightens and he sees with a start that her hair has been shorn close to her scalp on one side, the edges blackened by smoke. Her face tightens a little when she notices his look. “It’s not so bad, really.” She shrugs.

“I feel I ought to apologise.” Bilbo says, then immediately regrets it.

“For a dragon?” She says quietly.

“Yes.”

“Well don’t. Won’t fix anything.”

“I know that.” Bilbo feels even more awful as he looks at her. The children of men reach maturity faster than hobbits, but all the same, to be told such a thing by a girl barely out of her tweens…well, he does seem to have odd effects on royalty. “Your family, are…are they well?”

“Tilda wants to go and see Fili and Kili, but Bain won’t take her. He’s not saying, but he’s upset because my father wouldn’t let him fight.” The rueful voice of an older sibling.

 _Lucky for him._ Bilbo cannot help but think. “Have you seen them?” He asks, at a loss for what else to say. He knows at least some of what happened in Laketown before the dragon came, so it wouldn’t surprise him that Bard’s children formed an attachment to the princes. To do so is frighteningly easy, after all.

“Not since they left to return to the mountain. I hear Kili is badly hurt, though.” Sigrid’s brow crumples. “We always thought that dwarves were lucky. Like something from a bedtime story.”

“The line of Durin are ever the exception to any rule, you’ll find.” Bilbo tells her sadly. He does not say more. She is too young for his burdens, he who feels a thousand years old for the grief of a few short days.

He ought to at least check in on Fili and Kili.

He does not have the courage though, so he stays. Sigrid soon finishes her work, and instead of the activity he was set upon, he finds himself sitting with Bard’s children at the gate of their tent, kindling a tea kettle. He ought to take himself off, but there's rain coming on, they ask him to stay and it is comforting, to not be beset with angry mutterings and fierce glares through rent beards. To be free of a blame he fears more than anything.

Perhaps the losses of the Lakemen were less, or they simply do not show their grief as readily as the dwarves. Either way, it is quieter in this area of the camp. The cries of grief are muffled, if they are heard at all. He must be terribly selfish, to take comfort in that.

Bilbo refills his cup when Sigrid offers him a ladle. The hot liquid inside its copper urn smells vaguely of some kind of spice, dark and smoky. It is thick, strong, and Tilda’s small, sooty face crinkles when she sips it. “Are you going to live in the mountain now, Mr Baggins?” she asks.

“Hobbits live in burrows, not mountains.” Bain corrects before Bilbo can speak. He looks at Bilbo, then away, reddening. “I mean, so I’ve heard tell of.”

“Rude.” Tilda accuses. “And burrows are underground, aren’t they?”

“They are.” Bilbo supplements.

“Then it’s not different, so there.” She looks mulishly at her brother, who shrugs.

It is, but they are children, and have known only the Lake. Had he lived all his life on slippery bridges and frigid water, in the close crowded houses with their wood smoke hearths and goods hanging from the ceiling rather than tucked away in well placed pantries, perhaps he too would imagine things differently.

He tells them, then, about Bag-end. About which corners best catch the afternoon sun, about the vegetable garden and the hidden corridor he uses to get away from nosy relatives (naming, of course, no specific names). This somehow turns into the story of his parents- how his fusty, gentlemanly father built the smial as a labour of love for the wild-hearted and brilliant Belladonna Took, in the hope she’d choose him to trek home from her many adventures to.

“The thing was, she’d already chosen him, long ago.” Bilbo recalls an often repeated tease of his mother’s. “She was simply waiting for him to catch her up.” Looking around, he sees that he has amassed a small crowd of listeners, mostly Laketown faunts clustering to get at the heat of the fire.

They ask for another story, obviously fascinated by this small furry-footed creature from far away west. Amid much noise and fuss, Bilbo finds himself recounting the first time- but not the last- Bungo Baggins had attempted to propose, only to be rudely interrupted by a certain firework toting wizard on a rickety cart.

“It bowled my father right over. He fell into the Brownfeet’s cabbage patch and there was a dreadful hullabaloo.” He tells them, getting a flurry of giggles in response. “By the time he got up again, and apologised, and dusted off his best cravat, Mother was already on the cart. Laughing her head off of course, she was terrible back then. She wished him better luck next time, and said she was off to see the elves.”

The children murmur amongst themselves. “We’ve seen elves. They’re _spooky_.” A dark haired boy says in a confidential tone. The rest of the children nod in rapt agreement.

He wonders where their parents are, and then realises that most of them must be orphans, either from the battle or the last desolation of the dragon. He falters over his tale at that thought. “Go on, Mr Baggins! Did she take him on an adventure?” One small girl asks, blinking up at him from behind the mass of grubby fur she is holding. Bilbo belatedly identifies it as one of those odd dogs the Lakemen keep.

Bilbo blinks, his thoughts for once frustratingly stuck, and that’s all it takes for a clamour to start up. Sigrid takes it upon herself to rescue him and rises from her stool, clapping her hands together twice. “I think we’ve all kept Mr Baggins from his business long enough. Goodwife Alma will be looking for you all, come on.”

“Oh no, that’s quite alright-” Bilbo starts, but a dry cough interrupts the ruckus.

“May I borrow Mr Baggins for a while, if you please?”

Balin. Balin with a polite smile that is only a shadow of his usual indulgent beam, with his beard hacked off in chunks and his red hood pulled up to shield against the driving sleet outside the tent. He looks as tired as Bilbo feels.

Bilbo swallows, an audible sound in the sudden silence. “Balin.” He says weakly. “Is it time?”

*

“I don’t understand.” Bilbo manages to look Balin in the face for the first time since their long walk through the camp towards the dwarrow tents. They are going in the wrong direction, he realises. “I thought that-”

“The King may yet live.” Balin says quietly, beginning to move a little faster.

“Is it Kili, then?” Bilbo asks, dreading the answer.

Balin seems surprised at the question, shaking his head distractedly. “No change, as far as I’ve heard, though it’s precious hard to get near him with Fili in such a state. Through here-”

Balin cuts a path between several grey bearded dwarves, all of whom are giving spectacularly hard stares in Bilbo’s direction. He barely notices though, for as they get closer to the tent Balin seems intent on entering in spite of how crowded it is, raised, familiar voices catch the hobbit’s attention.

“I said I’d handle it, Ri-son.”

“You mean you’ll botch it, rather.”

“I’ve done it half a hundred times, ye fool, its part of the job-”

“Oh yeah, and I spose it’s considered par for the course when you leave some poor hapless fucker without a trade at the end of it. I’ve seen your work, and it’s a bloody mess.”

“If you call what you do a trade, Nori-”

“Cram it, Dori. You know what I mean and you know I’m right.”

Balin sighs briefly and puts an arm across Bilbo’s back, as if he worries the hobbit might cut and run. Precious little chance of that when the Dwarrows outside the tent have formed something of a circle behind them. Bilbo shakes off the cold feeling in his skin and tries not to seem worried. Peering into past the canvas, he can see Dwalin with his arms folded across his chest, the picture of indignation to Nori’s cool exasperation and raised eyebrows.

Dori throws up his hands in response to his brother’s snap, going over to other side of the tent, where Oin and Gloin are poring over a manuscript of some kind. It’s covered in blocky dwarvish runes that Bilbo hasn’t a hope of deciphering. Still, he focuses his attention on that instead of the press of dwarrows behind them and the argument between two of the Company, which restarts at that instant.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dwalin says, gruffly dismissive.

“I know you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. Me, I’ll do it clean, not some hack job like you an’ your oh-so-professional guards’d make of it.” Nori’s voice is scathing, and Bilbo wonders what on earth they’re talking about.

An amputation, perhaps? He thought none of the company other than Thorin and Kili were too badly injured, but he hasn't seen Ori yet, and he can’t see him now. Bilbo bites his lip all of a sudden, stricken with horror at the thought of the young scribe hurt, Ori- fierce and sweet-natured and far too young for any of this.

It can’t be, it mustn't, Bofur would've told him. Wouldn't he?

“The task was given to _me_ , Nori. I’ll not shirk my duty.” Dwalin’s voice is heavy. Perhaps, Bilbo thinks, this is the first time Dwalin has ever used the thief’s name- at least to Nori’s face.

Nori makes a hissing sound, like a frustrated animal. It’s that sound that frightens Bilbo properly, that makes him want to get away all of a sudden. He can’t help but remember the cliff, the recrimination in the eyes of the Company, his _friends_ , and even Balin hadn’t stepped forward to help him…

But then again, what could any of them had done? The gold had all of them, one way or the other. Even he himself was not wholly guiltless, the sheen of the Arkenstone called to him in his sleep at times, he can remember and none of it seems particularly pretty in hindsight.

“Let Nori do the breaking, at least.” Dori hazards from the other side of the tent. “Dwalin, someone needs to hold him still, so better if it were you.”

Balin starts to cough as Dwalin frowns, but Bilbo feels horribly cold and afraid for no real reason, and he can’t help but speak up. “What are you breaking? Is Ori badly hurt?”

The company turn to face him almost in unison, and Bilbo reaches to hook his thumbs defensively through his suspenders before remembering they were left in Laketown along with his virtue, when Thorin had snapped them as though they were string and pulled the buttons from Bilbo’s shirt in his haste to disrobe the hobbit, voice thickened by drink and a fierce, thrumming need.

Bilbo shakes himself a little, too embarrassed by his own recollections to meet the Company’s eyes. Dori shakes his head, making a delicate motion with his hands. “Ori’s just fine, Mr Baggins, no need for you to worry.” He looks at his brother then, and at Dwalin. “So, we’re agreed?”

“Aye, Dwalin, listen to the Ri.” Gloin pipes up. “Get it over with, for Mahal’s sake.”

“Get what over with?” Bilbo can’t help but ask, feeling as though he’s missing something frighteningly large and very close by.

“Let them in, then, Balin.” Dwalin seems to have conceded, ignoring Bilbo’s question.

Balin barely has to turn before the hard-faced dwarves from outside tramp into the tent. This has the effect of making the small space even more unbearably crowded, and Bilbo is forced to take a few steps forward.

He soon wishes he hasn’t, though, when Balin takes him by the shoulders and he finds himself in the centre of a circle, the unknown Dwarrows on one side and half the company on the other. Nobody is smiling, and as Balin takes his place and takes the manuscript from Gloin, not a word is spoken.

Until one is. “Bilbo Baggins.” Balin’s voice is quiet, and very grave, his eyes on the parchment, knuckles white. The tent is not so dark as it looks from the outside, and the abundance of light suddenly seems harsh. “You are charged with an offence against the Kingdom of Erebor. You have betrayed the trust and the law of our King, Thorin II Oakenshield. For this, you must-”

“No need to speak directly to the thief, son of Fundin.” One of the dwarves by the entrance says. He has a jocular voice and a full, curling beard, and Bilbo thinks that perhaps he is from the Iron Hills, where Thorin’s cousin Dain rules. “We all know his crimes.”

“And I know the law.” Balin says, a little of his usual crispness back in his voice. “He has a right to hear this, and to be heard.”

“Why do we speak of rights, when he is not even of our race?” Another dwarrow says, a thin one with a glass eye. “He’s naught but the King’s little catamite, and scarcely worthy even of that honour.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, it is Dori who speaks up, suddenly fierce in response to a word the hobbit has never heard before but does not sound particularly nice. “Watch your tongue, old man. King Thorin holds Master Baggins high in his regard- if it were not for you and your like this would not even be necessary.”

The one-eyed dwarf laughs, a sharp sound without any mirth. “Am I to take orders from some bastard tinker, son of a low courtesan, on the grounds of our ancestral home? I think not.” There is a murmur of consensus among the strangers, and Dori’s shoulders bunch in anger.

Nori, furious too, hisses again. Bilbo flinches at the sound, he can’t help it, but nobody is paying any attention to him. “Insult my brother _or_ our mother again and you may find yourself meeting your lordly ancestors, Toros. And I doubt they’d be too impressed.”

The dwarf, Toros, bristles, drawing himself up. “An insult, and a threat! I never heard such temerity-”

“ _Enough_.” The dwarf who speaks stands at the doorway of the tent, and his voice is deep but low. From its cadence alone, Bilbo can recognise Dain Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills. “We get this done. Properly, and quickly.”

“Get _what_ done? Excuse me?” Bilbo raises his voice, in the hope of being heard, but nobody looks his way. The company are all glaring at Dain’s dwarves, and all of _them_ are sneering at the company.

“Fine.” Dwalin again, sounding tired and sick to his stomach. “To the **_ubkun_** it is.”

Balin holds up a hand at that. “I’ll finish, brother. If this must be done, it must be done right.”

“Whats the use?” Dwalin retorts. He shoulders his way over to Balin, leaving a gap in the ring through which Bilbo can see a back entrance, and the night sky through pouring rain. “They want his imidūkh broken. We break him. It’s for his own good, he’ll see.”

“Not if he doesn’t _understand_.” Balin protests, brandishing his parchment, and he says other things too but Bilbo’s mind is stuck on a wheel of horror, _break him break him break him,_ Gloin is trying to speak over the sons of Fundin but cannot be heard even with his booming voice.

 _Break him,_ it’s cold, terribly cold, water dripping onto Bilbo’s shoulder through a gap in the tent roof and Dain’s men are squabbling among themselves, _break him break him,_ this is real, this is happening and _break him-_

Thorin’s sword sharp against his chest.

Drip.

Splash.

_Break him._

King’s catamite, _come here Halfling, come to me **, thief in the night.**_

The noise in the tent is growing, drip and splash again, and again. Bilbo’s legs shake, there is a golden ring in his pocket.

Cold. His hands are cold, _break him_ they said, the ring is always warm, too warm, he does not want to put it on- the gap, still there, he has to make the gap.

 _no friendship of mine goes with you, miserable hobbit, and he’s choking and kicking, can’t breathe, **break him,**_ nobody’s looking though, no one will notice.

There is mud on his feet and legs, and that is cold too but he can breathe again, and he is past the circle and out of the stifling tent and running running running in the dark with the ring on his finger, and it is all so terrible that he is grateful for the tears blinding his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry, everyone. I really appreciated all your encouragement last chapter, and hope you haven't completely lost faith in me for taking so long.  
> Unfortunately I have exams coming up in the next couple of weeks, so either I will procrastinate via writing this and update again really soon, or it will take awhile for me to get the next chapter out. Thankyou for reading, anyway. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, catastrophically late. This chapter was my albatross, but I'm getting into my stride with this story so there shouldn't be such a long delay again. I appreciate all your comments and support ever so much.

 Bilbo is soaked in mud. From his toes to his knees, and by association the legs of his trousers, the thick debris of battle-churned earth has resisted the rain and covered him with a layer of grit and slime.

When he stops to rest, squatting behind a latrine tent after running pell mell from his friends-

_The light swinging above his head, the lowered voices spouting words he is not permitted to understand, **break him**_

\- his feet are slippery and half frozen, for all their hobbitish toughness. He puts a hand to his chest, trying to dispel the tightness there, but the cool of the ring makes him pull it away again, an uncomfortable feeling he cannot quite place.

There’s no time to dwell on that though.

They were going to- to…

The thought makes him want to scream. Or be sick. Perhaps both.

Bilbo looks down at his hands, thoughts wheeling. In the half-light that tends to appear whenever he dons the ring, they seem elongated- larger and more obvious, yet somewhat diminished. He is seized by a sudden urge to take the thing off, fling it away.

He can’t though, can he? He knows he’s being chased. Such a large contingent of dwarves, all of them so determined to see him punished, whatever that means- they won’t just give up on the whole idea.

Having been treated to the particular stubbornness of dwarrows throughout the past year, Bilbo highly doubts they’ll be willing to let him go. Bofur had warned him of something like this and oh, _why_ hadn’t he listened. The faces of the company flash before his eyes- grave and determined in that tent, those of them who _were_ there.

Tucking himself against the canvas and shivering from the rain, Bilbo attempts to think things through. Well, that and to stop himself from fainting. True, he isn’t the same hobbit he was when all this started, but neither is he able to cut the memory of the tent from his mind. Of being surrounded, and utterly powerless. Of _trusting_ Balin, fearing for the lives of his friends, and being led right into a trap.

It hurts, more than anything.

He knows he betrayed the company, knows trying to do what he thought best only made things worse. However, there’s still a small part of him, or there was, that hopes and prays for forgiveness.

What a fool he is.

His first thought had been to find Gandalf. Naturally, since it is the way of wizards to be everywhere when they’re not wanted and nowhere when they are, this had proved singularly impossible. The wizard had disappeared, as he was so apt to do.

But there’s no one else, is there? The elves and men have no stake in Bilbo’s wellbeing. They would soon as hand him over to Dain’s council in order to preserve their fragile state of alliance than shield him from punishment.

Fear has reduced him to a kind of cold practicality, it seems. To be able to see himself, his own life and person from a distance. A little hobbit, far from home. Hunted and squatting in the rain.

He had lied to Gandalf, he realises. Saying he’d found his courage in the dark of the goblin caves. He had known it was something of an untruth at the time, but only because he’d lost his nerve, decided to keep the ring a secret. Now, he knows any claims he has on courage to be utterly hollow.

Still, considering whatever horrible ‘breaking’ that lies in store for him, he feels rather entitled to a spot of cowardice. Can’t sit here forever though. Quite apart from anything else, he’s lost all feeling from his ankles down.

Going to stand up immediately takes its toll. Attacked by a rush of pins and needles in his legs, Bilbo lurches sideways and finds himself knocked to the ground by a tall shape. Panicked, he struggles to right himself, before realising that he isn’t visible, and his assailant is not a dwarf.

Instead, it’s a man- stooped wrapped in dark clothes, a querulous look to him. At colliding into something not at all visible, he straightens and makes an almost offended noise. That noise is what enables Bilbo to recognise him.

Alfrid, the Master’s servant who had nearly scuppered them upon entering Laketown. Oily sort, Bilbo recalls- Bard didn’t think much of him. The man looks no worse the wear either for the dragon or the battle, just as scurrilous as ever.

Bilbo watches from the ground as Alfrid carries on past the latrine tent, picking his way through the darkened campsite, muttering to himself as he goes. The hobbit’s breath seems to freeze in chest until the way is clear, before he forces himself to get up and set off again.

He could go to the main tents, where he’ll no doubt find Bofur, and a bit of comfort. He can’t say with any certainty that all the Company didn’t know what was in store for him, but there’s still that desperate, fluttering hope that they didn’t all wish him ill.

Thinking back, it all seems so confused. Balin reading from that great heavy scroll, the dwarves of the Company avoiding Bilbo’s eyes while Dain and his men waited impatiently, as though this were no more than a minor inconvenience, an unpleasant diversion that they would rather not deal with but were more than prepared to see through. 

 _Break him._ What did that even mean?

Bilbo hunches his shoulders. Whatever it was, he has no intention of finding out. Not if he can possibly help it. He knows that dwarven law is different to that of hobbits, even to that of men. He ought to have expected trouble. Even knowing that, he’d had no idea it would be this harsh, this sudden.

And what’s more, he can hardly accept being condemned without a trial or any sort of explanation. It simply doesn’t seem _right_.

That, and the fact that this was so obviously planned, that Balin had taken him to that place fully knowing what was being prepared…

It is not so much anticipation of pain that drives him to hide, sodden in the damp and muck. It is fear of what will happen afterwards. Will they fulfil Thorin’s command of banishment, toss him from the campsite and forbid him to return? Is this anticipated breaking part of that?

He can’t exactly go to Thorin and ask. That’s the first place they’d look for him.

There is somewhere he can go, though, if he is going to be exiled from Erebor with enumerable broken bones. Somewhere he needs to go, if he wants to leave with anything like a clear conscience.

*

And he’s up again. Darting towards the doorway, bobbing on the balls of his feet and then flitting, all guilty like, back to his perch by the table.

If Bofur wasn’t sure that both of Ori’s brothers would hunt him down and wallop him for it, he’d be tempted to tie the lad down just to keep him still. As it is, he’s stuck waiting for Bombur to return with the rest of the soup and wondering what it is exactly that’s got Ori so worked up.

Beside him, Bifur rumbles something in ancient khuzdul. The battle has knocked his cousin for six, but the healers reckon there’s no permanent damage that wasn’t there already. Just taking a while for him to wake up is all. He's not in nearly so bad a way as Kili. 

Bofur’s content to wait by Bifur’s bedside, just as he did when they brought him back with the axe deep in his skull, his leather armour rent and blood caking his skin. Compared to those fraught weeks when he himself had been barely grown and unable to do much of anything, this is a breeze.

But it leaves him precious little to do, other than puzzle over Ori.

The little scribe is never usually like this. Normally, he’s absorbed in some book or other, or being fussed over by his eldest brother. Ever since Dori popped by earlier in the day though, there’s not been hide nor hair of him.  

Maybe that’s why Ori’s so anxious. Praps he ought to ask the lad to read aloud or something, help him calm down. Ori's never been much of a talker, but he's a good reader, always has been. Who knows, it might even bring Bifur out of the dark faster, hearing another familiar voice. Worth a try.

“What time is it?” Ori asks all of a sudden. “Sorry, I just…”

Bofur shrugs in response. He doesn’t have much time-sense above ground. “Middle of the night. Might be near dawn.”

“Okay.” Ori says, still looking nervy as anything.

Bofur grins at him, trying to put the lad at ease. “Now’s about the time we could do with your brother and his bloomin’ pocket watch, yeh?” Dori has lugged that thing from Ered Luin to Erebor, and it hasn’t caught a single dent. 

“Yes, well, I didn’t catch you complaining whenever I said it was probably time for dinner, did I?” A waspish voice demands from the entryway.

“Well, no.” Bofur agrees as Dori gives a sigh of exasperation (Bofur is very familiar with the tone and content of Dori’s sighs) and goes over to Ori.

Dori doesn’t say anything, and it takes Bofur a minute to figure out that they are using Iglishmek. The Ri use a slightly different form of it than he’s used to- Dori especially since he wasn’t raised in Ered Luin. Not that he can see much of what Dori’s gesturing, since the tinker has positioned himself with his back to Bofur, attempting to block Ori and his conversation from view.

There’s one thing he catches though, a worried hand gesture from Ori. _Hobbit_.

Oh no. Bofur knows he isn’t the smartest, but he might have known better than to let Bilbo wander off on his own. Some of the things he’s heard muttered or outright threatened against the hobbit are downright worrying, but he promised Bombur he’d stay with Bifur and he was sure the rest of the company would look out for their burglar.

“What is it?” He asks, careless of interrupting. “What’s happened to Bilbo?”

“Nothing.” Ori says too quickly, before Dori has even turned around to say the same thing.

“Where is he then?”

“We…we don’t know.” Dori sounds not just defeated, which is common for him, but also unusually tired.

“What is this?” Bofur ventures. Looking at them both- Ori gnawing his lip and wringing his hands, Dori frowning deeply, shoulders sagging- he’s suddenly terribly afraid someone’s died. “What on Mahal’s earth is going on?”

"Nothing." Dori says tightly. "Nothing at all." And with that, he leads Ori away, leaving Bofur with nothing to do but frown in suspicion, and wonder exactly how he's going to crack this one open. 

*

“ _Don’t_ make a noise.” He’s warned.

Precious little chance of that, Bilbo thinks, cursing his own lack of foresight. Nori’s hand (he knew it was Nori even before the thief spoke) is clapped tightly over his mouth, a bag pulled over his head before he can even squeak.

He shouldn’t have taken off the ring. It’d been stupid- after all, he could’ve easily gone into the tent where Fili keeps vigil over his brother, could’ve said his own silent goodbye without being seen or needing to say a word.

It had been selfish, but he had so wanted to speak to them, to both of them, just for a second. They were both so young, terribly young, they hadn’t deserved any of this. Bilbo knows that they would have flung themselves through fire and sword for their uncle, and that they have, moreover.

A proper goodbye is the least he owes them, even if Fili was mired in grief and Kili might not hear him. Might never wake again.

So he’d tugged off the ring, before he even got there, and that’s when Nori caught him. He would almost admire the dwarf’s skill if he wasn’t currently being carried like a troublesome piglet, thrown over Nori’s shoulder with a surprisingly strong arm stopping any movement on his part.

When he realises, from the smell of the lamps, that they’re back at the tent he ran from earlier, he nearly does squeal like a piglet. Nori hands him into an even stronger grip, _Dwalin,_ and the bag is pulled from his head.

“Sorry it has to be like this, Bilbo.” Nori says, looking on dispassionately as Bilbo pushes against Dwalin’s hold, only to be pulled back tighter, one arm across his chest all it takes to immobilise his upper body.

“I find that very hard to believe, the way you’ve all carried on.” Bilbo can’t help but point out. “Is this any way to treat me, even if I have committed a crime?”

“Now then, laddie. We’ll not make it too hard on you, but you must trust us. The King and all of us, we’ve your interests at heart.” Gloin’s booming voice, coming from somewhere behind him. Bilbo can see Balin out the corner of his eye, but Dori and Oin are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they lost the stomach for it.

Or Oin was called to the King’s bedside. No. Bilbo will not think of Thorin. Not when Gloin just all but admitted this was being done on Thorin’s orders.

They are going to _break him_ , Bilbo understands, and however limited or well-meaning the deed is, Thorin told them to do it. He gives a mewl of panic, wanting to bite or scratch, to get away by any means necessary, but unable to do either because these are his friends, they are Thorin’s company and it is useless, useless to fight.

That they want to do it, intend to do it, and clearly think it proper, is enough to steal any defensive impulse from him.

Were he in Hobbiton, he could demand a trial, a chance to say his piece. Then again, if he were back in Hobbiton he would never landed himself in such a pickle. Never fallen for a king. Never snatched a kingsjewl. 

The tent is dismally silent, only Dwalin’s slightly heavy breathing as he continues to prevent the hobbit’s struggles doing anything to break the quiet.

“Bilbo, this is beyond foolish.” Balin says eventually. “This running to and fro- it’s only delaying what we all know must happen.”

“Must it?” Bilbo asks, uncomfortably aware of how powerless he is, that even if he managed to escape Dwalin’s grip, the dwarves are not going to let him go this time. “I don’t see _why_.”

It’s a pointless thing to say- considering what he’s done and all the trouble it caused, but Thorin banished him. Surely that is punishment enough?

To see hatred in the face of one he had given his heart to, indifference or censure in the eyes of the Company, who had become near family to him in the months of their journey. Knowing that they did not want him.

To feel fingers tighten around his throat, and kick into the empty air, fear stealing his breath faster than any pressure from Thorin’s hand. Later, to touch the bruises, and have a far greater ache in his heart. He grits his teeth and refuses to let himself break. He will not cry for things already done.

He can be stronger than that at least.

“For your own good, lad. There’s a due to be delivered, but we’ll see it done right.” Balin may believe his own words, but Bilbo is hard pressed to tell. When did everything become such a muddle?

“No.” He tries to take a step forwards, only to have Dwalin tug him back again, lock that arm back around his chest. Not tightly, nor roughly, but hard enough to let Bilbo know not to attempt such a movement again. “I’ll _go_.” He murmurs, half not wanting to be heard.

“Don’t be ridiculous, burglar.” Dwalin says gruffly, but even hanging from the warrior’s arms like a marionette Bilbo can still shake his head, and he does so.

“You heard Thorin. He banished me. Its right I should go.” It will hurt, of course. It will leave a cold and hollow place within him, to turn his back to the Lonely Mountain and walk away, back to the West and his empty smial. But he will, because he is broken enough already.

“He was sick with the sight of the gold. He didnae mean it.” Gloin says. “He would see you protected. Just as we will now.”

Bilbo is stymied by that for a second. Protected.

_Break him._

 This does not feel remotely like protection.

A puffing sound alerts him to the arrival of another dwarf. When the newcomer crosses under the light of the lamp, he recognises him as one of Lord Dain’s councillors, corpulent with a black beard and tired eyes.

“Ah.” The dwarf sighs. “You’ve caught the little creature. Thank Mahal. Don’t know if the rest of the lads can stand another hunt.”

“Well, we don’t all have your stamina, Lord Grignr.” Nori pipes up, managing to mix deferential politeness with sheer contempt in a way that Bilbo had previously not believed possible.

“No.” Balin says hastily. “But now you’re here, Grignr, we may proceed. Without the formalities, I think this time.” 

Panic grips Bilbo again, made worst by his confinement in Dwalin’s grasp. He cannot bear this, truly.  The choking fear is worse than what he felt facing the dragon, and only slightly less than what he felt when he saw Thorin fall to Azog.

Once again then, he finds himself powerless to prevent anything. Some excuse for a Took and a burglar he is.

But he’s not either, really. Right now, he is naught but Bilbo Baggins. And he is very afraid.

“Please.” He tries for that. “Please. Don’t.”

“We don’t like this anymore than you do, Bilbo.” Balin’s kindly face is the picture of unhappiness, true, but Bilbo can’t help but think that, well, that’s all very nice but _he_ isn’t the one in line for having his bones broken. “But it’s got to be done.”

Struggling clearly isn’t doing much good, Bilbo reflects as he twists away from Dwalin, wondering if a good hard kick to the warrior’s flank will give him enough time to bolt.

Oh yes. Run. A fabulous idea. And they’d catch him again, and tie him down for good measure. _Break him_.

If only he could explain properly, get them to understand that _he_ understands, that he knows-

But he doesn’t really, does he? Bilbo is no dwarf. Nothing in the world will ever make him one of them, even if he loves them (and their King especially) with all his timid, racing heart. No wonder they never bothered explaining this to him. It will never seem anything other than horrific to his own sensibilities.

And necessary to theirs.

“Hold him still, then.” Nori’s voice is very soft, as if to calm a flighty animal.

“We ought to wait for the rest.” Dain’s advisor objects. “I mean-” he turns to bluster all of a sudden, and though Bilbo cannot turn his head to see, he likes to imagine the company are glaring at the dark bearded dwarf.

“You’ll do, Grignr.” Dwalin says darkly.

Bilbo fights almost to the end- twisting and turning like a rabbit in a trap. He is in a cold sweat, aware of every inch of his skin and the prickling tightness, the tension that comes with anticipation of pain. He wants to cry out, to tell them to wait at least, to please, please wait and let him make himself ready.

But he can sense at last that his luck has well and truly run out.

Dwalin takes both the hobbit’s wrists in one massive hand, extends them slowly away from Bilbo’s body until they are close enough for Nori to grab. He holds Bilbo fast and limits any movement, and Bilbo knows that is probably a kindness, but it makes his throat seize with terror nonetheless.

Nori is no less determined than Dwalin when he grasps Bilbo’s twitching hands and uncurls his fingers from their pitiful attempt at fists. His eyes, very dark and usually with a sly glint, are fixed on Bilbo’s hands.

“Now?” Dwalin asks.

“Now.” Nori affirms, quiet and sure as he twists his fingers quickly around Bilbo’s, and then-

Then the cracking, terrified scream that has been building in Bilbo’s chest for who knows how long finally escapes. It is not so much a sound as rush of pain and shame moving through him, scouring him of any other sound and leaving him utterly, utterly raw.

*

The worst thing, Dwalin thinks to himself much later, is how pathetic the situation is. It’s not a thought he’s had before- usually when he breaks a thief’s bones, there’s a sense of gravity, that justice, as unpleasant as it is, has been done.

That the event had some kind of _purpose_.

But when Bilbo goes limp in his hold, doesn’t even cry out beyond that single yelp of agony, when the pitiful snap of his bones in Nori’s careful hands are the only sound anyone can hear, there is naught to do but feel ashamed.

Dwalin has never seen fingers broken like this. Usually, the guards will crush them under a block, use some kind of instrument designed for the purpose. It’s supposed to ensure that the wounds will be even, a straight break, that no excessive force is employed.

Nori, apparently, disagrees. He does it as he says he would, quick and clean, though it still seems to take an age.

His grip is deceptively gentle, Dwalin sees. Starts with the smallest of the hobbit’s already tiny fingers, bends them outward rather than backward, and at that first effort Bilbo ceases any weak struggles he is making. The rest go just as fast, Nori’s tongue caught between his teeth as he breaks each fragile bone, cool in his efficiency.

The sound puts Dwalin in mind of a twig breaking underfoot. Bilbo’s head is lolling to one side- has he worked himself into a torpor, or is he merely insensible from the pain?

He had thought himself in possession of a stronger stomach than this. That he had at least enough will to carry out his King’s commands. But no, it is this surly footpad, the thief of Ri, a nothing, a motherson, who calmly performs the sentence.

The only indication that Nori feels a single thing after the task is done is his pallor, and well, the weather is cold. He can settle his own conscience- Dwalin son of Fundin knows enough of Nori to realise that whatever he feels is not for others to see unless he so chooses.

Let Nori go and seek his brothers, or peck at the toymaker in whatever strange courting dance he likes to use. His part in this is done, and Dwalin prays that he is right and these wounds will heal faster than any he himself might have made.

Once Grignr has assessed the damage to be sure it is sufficient, Dwalin lifts the hobbit properly- unable to avoid further pain to Bilbo’s broken fingers no matter how gentle he attempts to be.

“Most satisfactory.” The councillor is saying. “I shall inform the rest of the Council immediately.”

“And you’ll make no more demands for **ubkun**?” Gloin growls, hand on his axe.

Grignr bristles in return. “As long as the halfing does no further disrespect to our people, I don’t see why not.”

Dwalin should keep silent, he knows he should, his is not the gift of smooth words and a cool head, but something compels him to speak. “Take this as warning, then. Bilbo has paid his due. And he belongs to the King. Any further attempt on his safety, we’ll meet with punishment of our own.” It’s true enough- Thorin has claimed the halfling in more ways than one, and the dwarves of the Iron Hills will be more wary of coming near Bilbo if he is under royal protection.

Dwalin can’t help but wonder privately if the hobbit will ever want Thorin or the company near him again. 

The silence that follows this is palpable, but thankfully Balin recovers himself in time to smooth things over. “Well, that’s that then. Thankyou for your assistance, Lord Grignr.”

The other dwarf grunts in acquiescence, giving a cursory bow before taking his leave.

Turning to Dwalin, Balin wears the same exhausted expression of Dwalin’s childhood, when the younger would run his elder brother ragged. “Take him to Oin, quickly.” Balin says. “I must go and speak to Lord Dain.”

“Dain? What more can he want?” Dwalin finds himself asking his brother.

“Nothing, we can only hope. He clearly wants this business done with. Go to Thorin afterwards.” Balin does not need to say more. Thorin will wake soon, and will probably be none too happy that they have disregarded his wishes.

What good, though, would Thorin witnessing the _ubkun_ have done? It would only have distressed Bilbo further. Dwalin spares the small body in his arms a glance. Bilbo is wan and only half conscious, most likely in some kind of shock from the assault of pain in his fingers, which are dragging against Dwalin’s arm with each step.

“Gloin- lift his arms a bit.” Dwalin asks. The red-bearded dwarf does as he’s been asked, keeping pace with Dwalin, but with the halfling in such a state they’re at a loss to see if it helps any.

Dwalin ignores the curious glances and occasional shouted enquiry as they make their way slowly towards the main healer’s tent. The news will be all round camp before long, and his priority is making sure that Bilbo is taken care of.

Once upon a time, that thought would have been the sole consequence of the fact that Bilbo shared Thorin’s bed. Initially, Dwalin had not thought much of the little burglar. He was soft, and tricky with it. But he had seen Thorin’s regard before the King even laid claim to the hobbit, however blind to it Thorin himself had seemed.

As the journey continued though, and Bilbo had proved himself an asset to the company, Dwalin had come to admire him for his own sake. That, and his duty to his King, had compelled him to keep a watchful eye on the hobbit.

For all the good that had done. Bilbo had made off with the Arkenstone, and with the goldsickness upon them, they had called him traitor, cursed his name. The night after the betrayal, Dwalin had propped Thorin up as the King drowned his sorrows in decades old wine, and agreed whole heartedly that the halfling deserved no better than he had received.

He near flinches now, to think of how vehement their anger was.

Thorin had fallen into melancholy once the drink took its toll, recalling in quiet tones the smell of the Halfling’s hair, the jewels of his eyes and the tilt of his mouth, promises they had made one another. Love talk, coloured with bitter rage and regret. Dwalin hadn’t known what to say, except to affirm what they’d both believed at the time- that Bilbo had broken faith with all of them.

Now…now he has no idea what to believe.

His life so far has been simple. It has been many other things, true, but always, at its core, what drove him was simple. Protect the King. Look after the boys. Serve the Line. Uphold the family honour, and never, never break faith.

None of that has changed, really. He has not failed, in spite of the hell they’ve gone through to get here. That should comfort him.

No surprise then that it doesn’t.

It’s starting to snow.

Bilbo makes a small noise when they near the tent, a whimper trying to be a word. Dwalin steels himself before looking down at the halfling, whose small bright eyes are wet, his colour drawn and mouth twisted. “Hurts.” Bilbo murmurs, trying to move his arms.

It takes a moment for the word to resonate, but by then Bilbo’s head has fallen back against Dwalin’s chest, his broken fingers hanging from their sockets, arms raised and clasped securely in Gloin’s grip. It is the shape of the tiny digits, ragged, twisted and unable to move, that causes Dwalin to turn his head away in shame.

“Aye, laddie.” He says heavily as they enter the tent. “I’m sure it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry for hurting Bilbo so. ;) Just so people know, I am on tumblr, but have changed my url recently (from brandybuckles to petticoatpope), so if anyone has any questions or wants to yell at me, feel free to drop an ask there at any time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me apologise to all of you still reading for my long absence from this fic. I had a lot on, but thats no excuse and I devoutly hope never to leave such a gap between updates again.  
> Secondly, thankyou so much for your comments and your patience. Here's chapter four, and I've edited the previous chapter a bit to smooth out the plot. Nothing major, though. :)

For what is by no means the first time in his life, Dain son of Nain is having doubts.

“Good.” He replies slowly to the son of Fundin who has brought him the news, direct from the event itself. Time seems to have run together and then collapsed in a heap, and now the whole thing is suddenly over. “Yes. Good. Thank you, Balin, for easing the way with all this. I'm sorry it could not have been over with more quickly, and with less of a mess.”

Balin, who Dain has known since he and Thorin were youngsters, gives him a very cool look. “As am I, Lord Dain. I hope you will see fit to make no further demands on our King and company?”

There is a weight to Balin’s countenance that saddens Dain. He has never seen the noble old warrior so look so defeated, and he seems to have aged years in the course of less than a week. “Aye. It’s done.” Dain assures him, with a swift touch to his arm. “I understand you regret it, but I’ll keep my distance from the wee hobbit from now on, and see my men do the same.

Balin inclines his head. “I will of course convey your regards in the matter to King Thorin.”

“Yes.” Dain says, a little startled at the title suddenly bestowed with such gravitas upon his cousin. King Thorin, Lord of Erebor. Who’d have thought it would all turn out for the good? Certainly not him, when he had shaken his head at Thorin’s dreams not so long since. He looks up, sees Balin regarding him shrewdly. “Thankyou.” He says again, by way of dismissal.

Seemingly aware that Dain is deep in thought, Balin gives a swift bow and excuses himself. Dain takes the opportunity of that moment’s solitude to sigh, feeling a heaviness descend upon him.

He has not felt such a weighty mixture of shame and frustrated good intentions since turning Thorin away more than a year ago. Then, as now, he had done what good sense and practicality dictated. Refusing to sponsor Thorin’s lunatic attempt to retrieve the Lonely Mountain was only wise, or had seemed so at the time. Still, he had felt a cut of regret when saying so to his cousin’s face.

Perhaps, had he not been so sure of his own doubt, Thorin would not now lie hovering between worlds. Young Kili might not be on the brink of death, his brother insensible with fear.

The Lord of the Iron Hills knows he has been lucky. His home, his people, _his_ heir are safe, and so it follows that his duty is to keep them so. Some small sacrifices are, in that case, only natural.

A cousin’s faith.

A pile of bodies.

The hands of a halfling.

He might tell himself these things and be satisfied, were he of a more complacent state of mind. But what, says a niggling, pressing voice in the back of his mind, _what_ gave him the right to sign away the fate of Thorin’s burglar? The creature has done him no personal injury.

His lords might argue differently. They had raised as many loud objections as Dain’s own conscience had to the quest when it was first conceived, but upon its success, the old pride had come rushing back with a vengeance. And- bugger putting it nicely- he himself is far from guiltless.

Had he not been filled with rage when the news of the Halfling’s duplicity first reached him? He, who had not been in sight of gold for weeks or more, had no sickness in his blood, and had not any of Thorin’s excuses?

Excuses. Won’t Thorin just _loathe_ that, hate the very thought that he is not entirely to blame? Dain snorts quietly to himself. Thorin and blame are old friends by now. If Dain knows his cousin, and by the Maker he does, Thorin will have been needling himself bloody over his treatment of Bilbo Baggins.

Not that Thorin had been left much choice. Those who claim that Dwarven law is stone are right, Dain supposes, but stone can be as slippery as anything else, with a liberal application of politics. Dain’s council is mostly made up of the old blood- and they mean to have things as they were, in the days of Erebor of old.

Well, they’ve made a promising start, though what that means for the future Dain is less and less sure. Dain can remember old Thror at his worst, in the months before the dragon came- seeing spies everywhere, doling out punishments on a whim. Thror’s rule had been absolute, his word circumvented all and his obsessions…

A small shudder goes through the Lord of the Iron Hills. Thorin, perhaps, has let the gloss of remembrance settle over his grandfather’s less glorious actions. In some ways, the dragon had saved Thror, even as it destroyed his rule. But there are those whose memories are long, and whose scars run deep.

Thorin, for all his bravery and sacrifice, has not been a Lord in this land for many years. Dain has, and he knows the value of a strong council, and it’s attending detriments. A council can moderate, speak to the views of the people, pull a King to heel when his power runs away with him. But it can also be something of a lodestone, when it comes to things like tradition.

He trusts his councilmen, for the most part. For the most part, there are those who sincerely believe in the laws, however harsh their justice. They were the ones who had led him and guided him when he returned from Azanulbizar, a raw youth scoured with the ravages of war and the loss of nearly all his kin.

But he is older and doughty now, and not so green as to believe that justice was the only thing on his advisor’s minds when they insisted on punishment for Thorin’s little burglar. There was a precedent for it, true enough, but there’s more than that to it.

Bilbo Baggins is a threat. Or he could be, in any case. Dain is tempted to shake his head at this line of reasoning, to dismiss it as fear-mongering, as stodgy clinging to the old ways, needless suspicion of outsiders. Not as though the burglar is an elf, after all. But at the same time, he can understand it.

His council whispers of the power the creature no doubt has over Thorin, to make the King forgive him so great a betrayal. It is well known that Thorin took the burglar for his own, and the love of a dwarf is a fierce thing. Some might say that it has no equal.

Love for a person is healthier than love for a jewel at least, but still a powerful thing. Lessening the hobbit’s potential influence, showing him his place- for the good of the kingdoms, such a course is easy to justify.

Not that simple though, is it? Not when pesky things like guilt poke their heads above the parapet, when emotion makes its entrance and stubbornly refuses to leave.

King and conqueror though Thorin is, Dain does not envy his cousin the days ahead.

***

“Close your eyes, lad. It’ll pass.” With a little effort, Bilbo does as Oin tells him. He does not want to fall asleep again, though. He cannot count the times in the past few hours that pain has overwhelmed him and sent him drifting into an uneasy sleep.

Every time, he dreams of the breaking. 

Both Oin and the young dwarrow who is responsible for tending to Bilbo seem to think that sleep will help the hobbit heal. They do not know of the dreams, for Bilbo has made up his mind not to speak, of that or of anything else.

At least the shaking has stopped. When the young healer- Bilbo thinks the dwarrow's name is Meer- bound up his fingers with splints and strips of linen, Oin and Dori had to hold Bilbo’s wrists to keep him steady, even as he flinched away from their touch. The pain had mutated into nausea, chills, and an inexplicably aching head. Or perhaps that is just the fear working through him.

What is to happen to him now?

None of the company will tell him. Maybe they do not know, and do not want to scare him more by speculating. He would like to think so, anyway.

He would like to think they feel at least a little guilty.

Oin finishes his inspection of Bilbo’s hands, and makes a physician’s noise of indeterminate satisfaction.

“You needn’t look so afeared, Bilbo. It’s a clean break at least. Never thought I’d see the day when Nori kept his word.” The old healer gives what Bilbo is sure is supposed to be a reassuring nod.

 _Oh. Well that’s very comforting, I’m sure._ Bilbo thinks, and perhaps the expression shows on his face, for Oin turns away abruptly. Bilbo curls deeper into himself, rather wishing to disappear. He thought he was past being an object of pity, but apparently not.

“There there, master hobbit.” Meer smiles down at him. Meer is dark haired and jolly, dresses in plain green robes that seem to belong to the healing profession, and speaks in the thick accent of the Iron Hills “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time at all. Speaking of, are they s’posed to be quite so hairy?” 

Once upon a time, that comment, coming from a dwarrow whose beard hangs in twisted ropes around his face and whose long braid is tied into fanciful double knots so as not to drag upon the ground, would have made Bilbo scoff with laughter. Now, he simply shifts onto his side so that he does not have to look into Meer’s friendly, innocent face.

Why do the dwarves send their young so readily into battle? They are not a numerous people, it is true, but Bilbo, from Gloin’s many fond stories of his son and Bombur’s less vocal but no less obvious adoration of his many children in Ered Luin, knows that dwarves are fiercely protective of their progeny.

Yet this seems to be the way things have always been. If the necessity is there, then it must be served. He thinks of Thorin’s nephews, of the twenty or so years they have lived in comparison to him, and how much younger they are in spite of all that. He remembers Thorin, his eyes dark with past misery, speaking in low tones of his brother- who was barely thirty, not even an adult by the standards of his people, when he fell at Azanulbizar. It fair baffled the hobbit then, and still does now.

He supposes that as with many things concerning dwarves, he simply does not understand, and likely never will. How well he has become acquainted with that, Bilbo thinks, with no small helping of bitterness.

No wonder he landed in such a mess. Shifting positions has alleviated the throbbing in his fingers a little, but has done nothing for the dull ache that has taken root in his chest.

It is heartbreak, he suspects. The company all seem to think that his broken fingers have mended the quarrel his taking the Arkenstone caused, but he cannot see how. He is in pain, and quite alone. He feels a gulf, an immeasurable distance, has opened up between him and his former companions. Between him and Thorin.

“What was that, Bilbo?” Dori’s low voice makes Bilbo start, and he is thankfully able to deflect further questions with an involuntary wince caused by how fast he snaps his head round to look at the dwarf, who had been attempting to plump the thin pillow beneath Bilbo’s head without disturbing him.

He had not realised that he was murmuring Thorin’s name aloud, and goes to cover his mouth with a hand, embarrassed beyond belief.

Dori takes a swift hold of Bilbo’s arm, stopping him from completing the motion. “Best to keep quite still, I think. For the time being.”

As Bilbo registers the spikes of agony that even lifting his arm causes, he cannot help but nod feebly in agreement. Dori gently disengages his grip. He at least seems to realise that Bilbo is in no mood for friendly conversation.

Bilbo does not need to wonder where the rest of the company are. He is glad that they are avoiding his sickbed, because the thought of seeing any of those who witnessed his punishment- the memory swims behind his eyes, and to his horror he retches, the soft crustless bread and milk mixture that he was coaxed into consuming earlier making a quick trajectory back up his gullet.

It is only Meer’s quick action that saves Dori’s robes from a splattering- the young dwarf grabs a wooden bowl from the trestle table and places a hand around Bilbo’s neck. Meer is gentle but swift, drawing the hobbit up on the bed and allowing him to be violently sick into the bowl, as Dori tuts and goes to wet a cloth.

“Oh, the poor little thing.” Dori frets as he hands the cloth to Meer. Bilbo would protest being described in such terms, but is rather too busy coughing up the remnants of his last meal. What a sorry state he must look, the hobbit can’t help but think.

“He’s alright, aren’t you master Baggins?” Meer’s voice is ever jovial. It ought to vex Bilbo, given his current situation, but he is too melancholy to be angry. Especially with Meer, who seems wholly incapable of any malicious word or action, and anyway, none of this is the young healer's fault.

Bilbo does not speak- could not even if he wanted to. His throat has turned quite raw. He is given a few sips of water, then settled back down onto his pallet.

It is then, and only then, that he becomes aware of the ruckus outside.

***

 _Every time._ This is in no way an understatement. Every _single_ time.

Standing in the doorway of the tent and watching things fall apart, Dori wonders how his brother manages it. Perhaps it is simply by virtue of being himself.

Not that Dori himself is guilty of anything less. They have always clashed, ever since Nori was old enough to grow proper whiskers. This quest they have shared by accident more than anything else, but Dori is willing to admit that Nori at least made an effort to be slightly less of a rapscallion.

And what he did for Bilbo…

Dori knows that his brother has not suffered the breaking in his long and varied career. Nori is too good a thief for that.

But there have been others. Dori has been forced to shelter friends of Nori’s who found themselves punished in such a manner- once a pickpocket has curled over the sofa cushions or a card shark is passed out on the rug and Ori is asking questions, there is generally very little choice in the matter. He has seen what going through the breaking can do to a dwarf, and Bilbo, though doughty, is so small…

So Nori has done the hobbit a kindness, no mistake. And it had to be done- as much as it turned Dori’s stomach to be complicit in such an act, he can see the wisdom in attending to Bilbo quickly and sensibly, lest any of the more militant dwarrows of Dain’s court were to take the responsibility upon themselves.

 He shudders to think. And the memory of the disdain with which the nobles of the Iron Hills look upon him and his brothers only serves to increase the bile of the whole sorry affair.

This, however, is the cherry on top of the cake. And there are people watching. How wonderful.

“How _could_ you?”

Dori fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. He has seen Nori fight with Bofur before. From the time when they were children they would scrap on the ground, hungry for fun and competition. And later, for each other. He was there the first time Nori returned from one of his far off escapades and Bofur, pale and drawn with the pressure of a dying mother and Bifur’s wounds and a younger brother to feed on the pittance of a miner’s salary, pushed Nori away angrily when Dori’s hapless brother tried to embrace him.

They are each other’s one and only, but Maker forfend they behave _rationally_ about it.

“For you.” Nori spits, grabbing at Bofur’s bunched fists. “I did it for you. I know how much you like the little fella, and besides, I couldn’t watch them-”

“Don’t you dare-” Bofur barely gets the words out before Nori lunges for him, grasping his face with both hands, the closest to a plea the thief ever gets.

“They would’ve hurt him worse if I hadn’t, love.”

Bofur makes a disgusted sound and wrenches himself backward, nearly slipping in the sodden mud. “If you gave a fuck, Nori, you’d’ve told me. You wouldn’t have let me find out from Ori of all people.”

Ah. Dori squints through the murky light and sees his younger brother, who has pulled off his hood and is twisting it between his fingers, looking close to tears. Earlier, he’d arrived in time to stop Ori from blurting out the plan to Bofur, but clearly his little brother’s guilty conscience got the better of him, and he’d sought out the miner again, despite Dori’s warnings that this would happen.

Dori makes to go towards Ori, but before he can make more than a step Nori and Bofur are at it again.

“What, and let you get yourself clapped in irons, trying to stop the King’s own justice being carried out? Trust me, darlin’, you don’t have the right temperament for prison.” Nori, snide as he can be at times, seldom sounds so scathing.

“I could’ve got him out of here, you great fool! I’m not quite so stupid as you and yours seem to think I am.” Bofur isn’t just angry, Dori sees, which is uncommon enough for the friendly Broadbeam- he’s _hurt_. Oh no.

“If you think you could’ve stopped them nobs from getting exactly what they wanted, you’re a fool and more!” Nori retorts. “We might have a share of the wealth now, but don’t go thinking they’ll respect us for it. I didn’t see oh so courteous Balin or his fusty cousins rushing to include you and yours in deciding the punishment.”

Nori is right, of _course_ he is, and Bofur probably knows as much. But it is a bitter thing to acknowledge, and neither of them have anything approaching a solution. Dori gives up trying to go around the quarrelling pair and elbows his way between them instead. “For goodness sakes, that’s about enough. You’re only upsetting yourselves.”

“We bloody _ought_ to be upset.” Bofur says.

“We are.” Ori pipes up. “We are, and it’s horrible. There’s no way to excuse it. But…you’re not the only one who cares about Bilbo, Bofur.”

“I’m the only one who seems to care enough to try and spare him, lad.” Bofur’s voice is quiet now- none of them can ever bring themselves to be harsh with Ori, who Dori is fast regretting allowing to sign his name to that dratted contract. He is too young for this- too young for blood and battle and the hungry eyes of the soldiers that track his every movement around the camp, looking to bury their lust. 

“We _were_ trying to spare him.” Nori says thinly. “Maker only knows what Dain’s lot would’ve put him through if we’d given ‘em half a chance.” Nori’s face is as honest as Dori has ever seen it since he was a child, habitual quirk gone from his eyebrows, his hair and beard sodden from the rain. He is close to begging.

Bofur makes a choked noise. “There had to be a better way than this. Can none of you see that?” He looks from dwarf to dwarf, and it is probably best that none of them can muster up an answer.

What, after all, could there possibly be to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...got nothing. Nori/Bofur is a case of me going down with a ship, I'm afraid.  
> Edit July 2016: I've had to put this story on semi-permanent hiatus- I'm afraid real life stuff kind of took over for me this past year, and keeping on writing just wasn't possible. I may (MAY) find a way to come back to this story eventually, but I don't want to make any false promises. Apologies to everyone, and thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul used (badly) in this chapter:  
> jazar-ubūrush- rite of pain.  
> ubkun- payment.  
> imidūkh- fingers
> 
> Prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5346.html?thread=11928546#t11928546


End file.
